Overheard: Heaven Scent

Abe and I split a breakfast at Perkin's and hugged in the parking lot to go our separate ways. Abe held me a little longer than usual.

"You smell good."

I don't wear cologne. "I smell like bacon!"

"Oh."

They really need to bottle that stuff.

Disaster Averted

Whew! I'm all better now.

Abe was up early and had to move my car so that he could get into his stuff in the garage. He asked me to join him for breakfast at a local restaurant before we went our separate ways. I got into my car and GAH. I was hit with a wall of that awful scent that's showing up in deodorants more and more. Even in this heat (about 90° then), I opened a window and blasted the air conditioner.

When we met at the table in the restaurant, I took his hands across the table and looked gently into his eyes.

"You must never ever again wear that deodorant you have on."

He blinked. "Why?"

I reminded him about the last time I was enveloped in that odor. I do not want to be catching that vile smell in my house OR my car. He said he could barely smell it, but he promised me he would throw it away.

Luckily, he wasn't in my car for long, and the scent is almost gone this afternoon. Dodged that bullet.

UPDATE! DEFCON FOUR! It wasn't him! I have a car from the dealership as they try for the FIFTH time to fix a leaky gasket in the convertible roof. It is the same car I had at the end of May. The odor is still there, and it had transferred to our clothes! Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh! It is back to haunt me! Truly, this stuff is a weapon. It seems to dissipate during the day when air is moving through, but I'll bet it's back this morning. Kill me now.

Potent Weapon

You know, I don't complain a lot. When I do, I wish I could it make it an art form—like Rox, for example, who has established a glorious, rolicking rant style that anyone would envy. But my sort of whine will have to do.

I'm driving a loaner car while my own car is being worked on. It's a basic sedan with good sound, nice enough except for one thing: the odor. Oh Em Gee.

Some scientist somewhere has invented the most potent scent in the entire history of the world and convinced deodorant manufacturers to include it in their products. The odor is so obnoxious that it leaves its essence wherever it passes. That's almost normal, but it's also normal for scent to fade away. This stuff lingers for HOURS. And today I learned it can stay for DAYS.

Apparently the service guy who brought around my loaner car was wearing something containing this vile substance. He was in the car for only a few minutes, yet the car reeked of this unnamable sickly sweet stench. It is thick and just wrong, wrong, wrong. I opened the windows and sunroof and hoped for the best, but I continued to detect the heavy scent even hours later. It seemed to diminish last night, but apparently that's only because so much air was moving through the car.

This morning I jumped in to head downtown and GAH. It was back, almost full force. I'm guessing somehow it is embedded in the leather. Ever see that episode of Seinfeld when Jerry couldn't get the valet's body odor cleaned out of his car? This is the chemical version of the same thing. All I can say is, that service guy better not be driving MY car back when it's ready.

This pungent artificial scent is apparently supposed to be pleasant. The only other time a smell repulsed me this much was when a skunk let loose a few feet away. I'm not kidding. This stuff has the potential to be a serious weapon. Am I the only one to feel this way?

Update: Day three. Still there, but fading.

S**t

I've got a big day at church tomorrow, lots going on for which my presence is desired. Then I have a nearly four hour drive to Chicago to give a presentation to the entire Sunday School volunteer staff at my old boss's new church. It's my first paid gig, and I'm finishing the PowerPoint tonight.

I went down to the basement to do a small load of clothes that would be best for the Big City. I came upon a horror scene suitable for Stephen King: the sewer line has backed up, and there is a fifteen foot circle of waste that saturated the boxes, full laundry baskets, rugs, and miscellany stuff that ends up stacked in basements. SHIT. (Literally. And it's everywhere.)

My son, his sainted best friend and I just spent an hour bagging up and carting out a boatload of saturated crap to the end of the driveway. We can't wash up here because the drain would back up further. Thank heaven for Huggies Wipes, which I keep for household cleaning.

While I wait for the plumber, my mind wanders to the SIX houses in the vicinity that have had their front yards plowed up with backhoes to replace these same pipes in the past year. (Cost: about $6K each.) Something's not right about this.

My neighbor has given me her remote code so that I can enter through her garage to bathe over there if I need to. Ben is going to stay at his friend's house after the plumber gets here. (Oh! He has a new car! I bought him a 2001 Camry LE. Very pleased with the deal.) Abe is out of town for another week. I'll probably be up all night sanitizing the basement after the pipe is cleared.

4:30 a.m. update: Plumber's been paid and the pipe is clear. (Not sure if it's roots this time. Hmm.) Not so the basement, but two 30-lb. bags of kitty litter really helps. I spread it and scrub-swept most of it into two large piles. No powdered chlorine at this hour, so I'll make a solution and swab when the litter's gone. Now I can shower and scrub and scrub and scrub and go to bed. Good night.

Tip: About ten years ago I bought two pairs of plastic Birkenstock clogs. They ended up being the "yard shoes" for everyone: mowing, raking, you get the idea. When they get dirty you just hose them off; replace the footbeds every few years. These things saved us tonight! Ben and I each had a pair to go tromping around that disgusting basement. Rinsed and scrubbed under the hose, they're ready to go under the bench by the door. You need a pair of these.

Day Two update: I'm baaaaack. And so is the water, dammit. At least this time it's ONLY water (from the shower) and a two-foot circle. Gonna have a talk with that plumber. I've got better things to do.

Day Three update: The 35-year-old clay pipe is separating at the joints, allowing tree roots to prosper and block the flow. Next week they will replace it with PVC for the princely sum of $5K. *sigh*

Knighted

Just call me "sir." Because, once again, I've been mistaken for a man. As I sat with my family—including two sisters who look a lot like me these days—the waitress asked for my order.

"And you, sir?"

What is this? You thought I was kidding when I posted my doppelgänger picture, didn't you? Well, I did too. *sigh*

Doppelgänger

Now I know why I've been called "sir" three times.

Image courtesy of Fameball.

Update: Make that five times.

Number 32,739

That's the current status of my list of Stupid Things I Have Done. I haven't really tried to count them until today. I figure after tonight's stunt, I needed some perspective. So tonight's STIHD is just .00003125% of all the idiot things I have done*. That's better.

What did I do? I nearly set the kitchen on fire.

We've decided that the bad ingredients in coconut oil are better than the bad ingredients in microwave popcorn, so we've gone back to the good old days of making our own stovetop popcorn. (Those of you old enough to remember will understand; it tastes like movie popcorn used to taste until the food police caused coconut oil to be taken off most shelves.)

I melted the oil in the pan and set it on the heat to pop the test kernels. Once those pop, you put in the rest, shake, and you get the best popcorn in the world. Needs no butter.

But tonight I was distracted and left the oil to heat. After too many minutes, I rushed into the kitchen to see smoke just starting to lift from under the lid. I took off the lid—second mistake—and turned to put the pan in the sink. WHOOMP! The pan filled with flames. I managed to still put the pan safely into the sink where the flames quickly extinguished themselves—I knew not to use water—but the house very shortly filled with smoke and fumes. We could hardly breathe. Abe and I had to leave the house several times as we struggled to open windows and mount fans. My throat still hurts. And no smoke was visible at all after less than a minute.

Finally, after twenty minutes or so, we could sit down again. Abe's throat hurt, but he rallied.

"So, are you not going to make more popcorn?"

I did. It was great.

*Formula: One mistake each day lived minus four years to learn right from wrong, plus one mistake each day each child has been alive. That's lowballing it.

Overheard: Guacamole

My husband Abe recently spent some time in southern California. He was enjoying the homemade feast his hostess had made. In case this conversation doesn't make it clear, she is a native Californian. She's sweet and brilliant, but living in California has its drawbacks.

Abe: "This is amazing guacamole!"

Hostess: "Do they have guacamole in Indiana?"

Pontoon Boat

Abe finally got his new company car, his first since 1984. In the shitstorm that was 2008, he was supposed to get a Toyota Highlander Hybrid in November. But on the ship, the container that held his car caught fire and they dumped it in the middle of the Pacific Ocean to prevent the fire from spreading. This event was a mere blip on our disaster radar that year.

It’s taken this long to get another, since all hybrids are sold before they ever leave the factory these days. It’s opalescent white and fancy-schmancy and beautiful.

That means Ben gets my old Bonneville and I get the minivan. I’ve had it for one day and I hate it. But I knew I would. I managed to raise two kids to semi-adulthood without one; I do not want one now. Oh, it’s nice enough, I suppose: a Town and Country with Stow ‘n Go® seats that are pretty cool. But I am so not a minivan owner, which puzzles my husband no end. He likes it.

Once when my brother rented a pontoon boat for our families for the day, Ben watched jet skis and motorboats tooling by and moaned that we were on the minivan of boats. That comparison works both ways: I’m driving the pontoon boat of cars.

I loved that ‘94 Bonneville. She isn’t pretty, but boy she has heart. Tell her to go and she says “How fast?” That 3800cc engine lives forever; not so the rest of the car (especially if you rear-end a truck on the ice in winter). She's had her one missing eye replaced but she still has no teeth and will not get them. Her red paint is beginning to oxidize and the leather interior is cracking. She’ll be a great teen car.

My goal now is to find myself a speedboat convertible. Since I have had only three cars in my life—keeping each for a minimum of ten years—I figure this is my last chance to get a fun car. I start looking next week.

Wardrobe Malfunction

I was a brand new elder. At 36, I may well have been one of the youngest ever. I made history by being the first elder to ask for—and get—child care for my one-year-old daughter. It was going to be interesting and exciting to be a part of the governing body of this big church.

Before the year started, we were invited to our senior pastor’s home for a get-together, just to meet and greet and get to know each other. There were about fifty elders —far too many, but we’ve streamlined since then. 

I went home from work to change into a nice new dress I’d just picked up from the cleaner. The dress was very dark navy with a barely-visible paisley pattern, belted at the waist, sweeping skirt to mid-calf, very smart with navy pumps. I felt great as I left for the party.

It was okay as parties go. I’m an introvert, but I knew a few of the elders, the majority of whom were businessmen. I wandered from room to room for a couple of hours, smiling and chatting. While I really didn’t get to know anyone new very well, I thought it was time well spent.

I came home ready to relax. As I stepped in the front entry, I took off my coat. Abe was in the living room. He asked, “Were you at the elders’ party?”

He knew that’s where I’d been. Why did he ask? “Yes...”

“Did you wear that dress?”

Well, duh. I raised my eyebrows and stared. “Yes…”

“Did you know it’s unbuttoned?”

“What?” I looked down. The buttons from the neck to the waist were just fine. “Very funny—”

“Look in back.”

In back? There were buttons in the back? I craned my neck to see and then turned to look back into the hall mirror.

Oh my. Apparently there were buttons in the back, from the waist to the hem. The dry cleaner had unbuttoned every single one of them to facilitate ironing. And failed to button them back.

My mind raced back over events of the past two hours: sweeping through the rooms filled with men, bending over to get snacks or drinks, no doubt exposing a large inverted V of my white satin slip. For two hours. Not one person said a word.

A few weeks later, I had a big presentation to give to the elders. I opened with that story to illustrate how missing information may be crucial. (Always start a speech with a story.) And I told them that the next time they see that to take the person aside and tell her. Jeez. They were rolling with laughter.

The presentation went well.

A Questionable Practice

You know the forced patter that newscasters and sportscasters are now required to perform as handoffs? And how the segue is inevitably forced laughter, even as they discuss serious topics? Why would my husband decide this is a great conversation technique to parody? How many more chuckles can I hear before I bop him one? And why, knowing it is coming, do I still laugh every time Abe does this? Am I that easy?

Are you answering every question in your head just to give yourself closure? Why do you suppose we do that? How long can I keep this up? Are you ready to bop me one yet? And can you keep it going?

Crash And Burn

Not me. My computer. My emergency backup laptop went wonky and suddenly displayed a screenful of vertical color stripes. Then nothing. The Apple genius "fixed" it, and while he was gloating it went dead. Off to the shop.

My original — and now current— Powerbook has a habit of shutting down randomly in several languages. Three techs have declared it a software issue, but having completely wiped the hard drive and reinstalled the OS, it was not cured. Until I get the other laptop back (or a new computer...hmmm), I am stuck with a computer that keeps shutting down and losing all memory of previous transactions.

This is my lengthy way of saying that I am having to rebuild my bookmarks from scratch. I can read most of my favorite blogs from my BlackBerry, but I can't comment. If you haven't heard from me recently, just know that I'm still reading! I hope this thing stays on long enough for me to po

Update: I'm having Haagen-Dazs Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream.

I'm Banned From YouTube For Life

Yeah, you read right. 

I'm using Abe's computer while my laptop's in the shop for.ev.er, and since my cookie isn't on this computer, I had to sign in on YouTube. I haven't had to do that in months, maybe over a year. But instead of my account popping up, I got a message on a red bar that read "Your account has been permanently disabled." There was an explanation that this occurs when YouTube finds "violation of copyright laws, community guidelines, or evidence of predatory behavior." They went further to state that I am banned from establishing any new account under any email address, and if I attempt to do so that account will also be banned for all time. Or words to that effect.

WTF?! Excuse me?! ME?! Well, no. Not me. I need to find out how long this has been in effect and for what reason. If it's for viewing something, I need to talk to my son. If it's for uploading or flaming, I need to talk to my daughter and/or her friends. Either way, I'm the one who's banned, for the rest of my life, from having a YouTube account.

I've also been barred from getting an answer from them too, apparently. I cannot post a question because I don't have an account. I tried the phone number, but they gleefully admit they have no live customer service and refer me to the online "Help" menu. 

I can still view videos that do not have a warning or an age requirement. So thank heaven, Barney the dinosaur is still available to me.* But I can never upload (for the first time) or post (again) any YouTube video. I may try a new account, just to see. But can they actually detect my new account through a different email address? Anyone out there know anything?

*Bitter, party of one.

Miami Airport, Part One: Outbound

In Which I Have Just One of the Many Hugely Embarrassing Moments of My Life

I was sixteen that summer in 1970. I had one more year of high school. I was very unhappy at home, and the best teacher I’d ever had convinced my parents to send me on a trip to Colombia, South America, where I’d take a six-week course in Spanish. The trip changed my life. But this post isn’t about the trip. It’s about my first time through the Miami airport.

My flight from Sarasota was uneventful but exciting to this first-time flyer. Back then, flying was an occasion to dress nicely. And back then, dresses were short. Really short. Don’t-bend-over-if-you-drop-something short. That will be very important later in the story.

To complete my dressy look, I wore pantyhose. This was a big deal. Pantyhose had recently been invented, and this was the first pair I’d ever worn. Up until now, it was an excruciating ordeal to put on hose: messing with those garters, getting the things to stay right. No wonder pantyhose caught on. But what was the proper way to wear them?

You see, pantyhose come with a cotton panel in the crotch. Was I supposed to wear underwear with these things? Nothing on the instructions said anything about it. But don’t you ALWAYS wear underwear? (Remember, I was sixteen.) Well, I couldn’t ask my mother; what did she know? She was what, almost fifty? And I couldn’t ask my friends; they might laugh at me for not knowing. So I had to decide on my own. And I decided yes.

Now the question was: do you wear them inside or outside? Stay with me here; I really thought about this. I decided that, since the pantyhose had that cotton crotch thingy, I should wear my underwear outside the hose. Quit laughing. I’m not done yet.

I wore nylon hiphugger bikinis. They were slippery things, but whatever. I was doing fine until I got off the plane in Miami. Apparently sitting on the plane loosened up my bikinis. As I deplaned, I realized that my underwear was sliding down the slick surface of my pantyhose. Since the hem of my dress came only just below my hips, my underwear did not have far to go to be seen. And every step I took sent those bikinis a little further south.

I locked my thighs and knees together as I walked from the gate, desperately looking for a restroom. I pressed my one free hand tightly to my hip to prevent my underwear from sliding to my feet. I was taking itty-bitty steps, clicking along in my pumps as fast as I could in my panic to find the damn bathroom. There it is! Thank you, God.

I slipped into a stall, let my underwear drop, and stepped out of them. I felt naked. So I took off my pantyhose, put my underwear on, and put the pantyhose back on. I’m sure you can appreciate the gymnastics involved in doing this in an airport toilet stall. No cracks about tapping feet, please.

More or less correctly attired, I made my exit and found the gate for the flight that would take me to Colombia. Whew.

Next: Miami Airport, Part Two: Inbound.